


figuring it out

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [112]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, M/M, Mental Instability, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29205714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Thiswassupposed to go into the second chapter of 'A four letter word', but it...didn't really seem to fit.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [112]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 16





	figuring it out

**Author's Note:**

> This _was_ supposed to go into the second chapter of 'A four letter word', but it...didn't really seem to fit.

_This,_ Wilson realized, _this isn't what I wanted, is it?_

It was more of a vague thought, a sneaking one that came crawling on in, and it kept him unwanted company. The darkness outside the thrown together fire seemed to pulse, throb with a hidden heartbeat, and the garland atop his head shed a few wrinkled petals as he moved, more like an unsteady shuffle, but no one was complaining.

Not even him, even as colors long drawn monochrome bubbled and smeared like putrid oil paints, dribbling thick to a pristine marble chess board.

Those last few hounds, Wilson thought vaguely to himself, had really drawn him thin. 

The dancing flame light wasn't dim, only a softer shade to it, and the flowers were helping, the light was helping - the presence of another was helping, and it made him exhale a soft sigh, only a hint of a stutter to it as his balance wobbled a bit.

The hands on his, worn leather gloves tangled with his claws, helped keep him steady.

Earlier, only so recently really, the hounds vicious and headed by a wild Varg and finally falling by shadow swords and not spears alone, Wilson had very nearly not been able to defend himself from the watching, slowly creeping forward shadows, bleach white eyes and sloping, hanging loose jaws, hunger nipping through the very air itself as he fell under Their monochromed spell-

But then Maxwell had stepped between him and Them, shadow sword rising once more, the thin scraps of shadowy armor still hanging loose from his suit. They had stopped Their approach, whispered and shed and giggled, eyeing Wilson as he sat there in the grass, far too drained to even attempt to defend himself-

-before They finally cowered, scooted and scrambled away from their former King.

Maxwell had lowered his sword then, the whistle of his strained breath loud in the new silence, before he had dropped the weapon and it burst into a cloud of tar slicked ash and a thin twiggy stick, barely heavy enough to bend the grasses. The conflict of monsters and shadows had drained the both of them, too far from camp to try and head back through the darkness, and it was a mutual, slightly slurred agreement in picking flowers and weaving garlands and setting up a few grass mats by a small fire for the night.

Wilson vaguely remembered the gray pastel world, how little the flowers did for him even as he tried to keep his mind from floating away from his grasp, and yet still, the memory of exchanging a few half witted puns, poor attempts to make a play on words-

-and still, even more faintly, he remembered the snorts and huffs of stubborn laughter, then the more relaxed chuckles, well humored and still a hint dizzy, uneven. For his part, Wilson remembered that he had laughed, laughed so hard and for so long the other man had to grab him to keep from falling, taking the half made garland out of his hands and lending a shoulder to lean upon. As the fit passed Wilson had laid there, head against the man's arm, the bony jut of his side, and his eyes had stared dizzily up to the cloudless sky and watched the grey and black and white consume each other in a continual, eternal bid of betterment.

Eventually both men had gotten enough back of their minds to settle down for the night, dig into the slightly torn backpack still salvageable from the hounds teeth and pull out a few small pieces of dried jerky, shared between each other. Maxwell had complained about his jaw, Wilson had eaten with a near viciousness to it as his still healing mentality recognized his gurgling belly, and as night fell and the half moon crescent came up with a dull, lightless light, it had almost felt peaceful.

The garlands had helped, Wilson knew, but they couldn't offset night by themselves. He had taken to fiddling with a bit of rock, a lone hunk of fools gold from the bottom of the torn pack, chipping and refining by his own rough, dull clawed hands.

Maxwell, on the other hand, had taken to other motions as to regain his recovering sanity of mind.

It had been the older man's movements, half steps and half lidded eyes, arms up and in posture, an almost faded remembrance, or memory, as he had taken slow, sweepingly elegant short steps on the opposite of the fire.

Wilson had watched, balance shivering in the very earth underneath him, watched as the former Nightmare King mumbled near silently to himself and continued his lonely dance.

Eventually his staring had been noticed, though he didn't have enough in him to look away, feel shame or cowed as Maxwell had teetered to a stop, a sway to his stance as his dark, pitch black eyes sluggishly dragged a gaze towards him. 

There had been a silence, for a few moments, a few minutes. 

And then, as if out of the blue, voice still hoarse and a hint rough but fully lucid, Maxwell had asked, "Do you care for a dance?"

It had been so sudden, seemed so sudden, random and yet not at all, and Wilson had blinked stupidly at the old man for a few moments, slowed mind still catching up, before unsteadily hauling himself to his feet and stumbling his way around the fire. Maxwell met him halfway, that glazed, unreal look back to his dark eyes, but his gloved hands were warm, the low wrinkles to his face pulled into something almost like a mask, or maybe something else, a blank sheet to hide behind, and Wilson found his own tongue only cooperative enough to say one thing.

"Sure," he had said, and "though I may not remember how. Give me a meaningful _dance_ , won't you?"

That had made the old man snort, a softer sound than earlier, Wilson's intentional pun meaning more now than before, from their earlier shots and prodding, and then he had been drawn in close and his gaze fell onto that crooked, snaggle toothed mouth and its blastedly familiar upticked grin.

A hint of hesitance, uncertainty held there too, though Wilson was too caught up in the fog of smeared colors and thoughts and shifting warm, firm pressured movement, touch.

And so, now, in the middle of busy autumn's sullen nights, Wilson stood with the former Nightmare King and allowed himself to be guided into a perfectly wobbled, shaky attempt at a proper dance.

It didn't take long, for him to lean forward, knees weak from exhaustion and mind heavy from stress, from everything that had happened today, monsters and shadows and the heartbeat of this world's night. His head leaned against the other man's chest, tilted to the side and ear pressed just so, enough to hear that unsteady, slowed knocking of a heart.

A different beat to it, Wilson blankly recognized, different from the darkness surrounding them and their little fire.

All the same, and yet so very different.

Even gloved Maxwell's hands were warm, entangled with one of his own, the other a curved arm set just above his hip, palm pressed loose to his back. The warm pressure, the firm contact…

It was almost enough to let him relax, and a shuddering breath finally escaped him as Wilson closed his eyes, feet dragging in the stamped flat grass as the older man led him in a slow, wide curve of a twirl. The movements were unfamiliar to him, his mind offered no hint of what dance this was, which one, its name or practice or even why it existed in the first place-

-only the warmth, the pressure of touch, of presence, of another human being holding him.

"...it's been a while." He murmured, sluggish and hoarse, mouth dry and yet body soothed in its fatigue as he felt Maxwell continue to guide him in the slow, simple little dance.

"...what has?" Maxwell spoke quietly, distant, and Wilson thought of how the old man's pitch black eyes must be closed, focused on regaining himself, focused on gathering that balance once more from the very air itself; how the former Nightmare King could just heal his mind from near nothing, drawing upon the air of the Constant and bouncing back so quickly from the horror, the dread of it all, was still a mystery to him. 

"This."

Wilson didn't say anything more for a few minutes, listened to that uneven matchstick knocking that his ears were so enraptured by, the gentle swell of a stuttered breath raised, then wheezed out from the thin chest under his head, and it was so removed from the normal sway of everyday, to listen, to hear the nature of human life up close.

When he did talk again, his grip still loose, his legs still heavy and dragging and yet still following the lead, still wanting to softly follow the lead, Wilson was near mumbling into the other man's suit jacket, face nuzzled close and relaxed, eyes still closed.

"...You used to hold me more." He could feel the sudden stutter, a moment of a stumble and freeze as the flow of their movements paused, but Maxwell only slowed, didn't stop as he continued on. "I...don't get touched as much, now."

The former Nightmare King was silent, for a few minutes, and Wilson could feel the half steps now, the slow down and brief stiff unrest, how the previous smoothness had been sheared away and leaving uncovered floorboards, marble chess squares, but his own grip tightened somewhat, shifting his head before settling, listening to those strained inhale and hoarse whisper thin exhales.

He didn't want to stop listening to that knocking, as inconsistent, unpredictable as it was.

It was far too familiar right now, to his still unsound, unbalanced mind, and he did not want to leave it just yet.

When Maxwell spoke, after a long, shaky silence, unsaid words floating through the night air, their shuffling dance moving slower and slower, the curves of it wide and less eased into, less solid in upkeep and more of a few stumbles of the feet before regaining footing, Wilson could hear the shuttered dry inhale, shreds of broken confidence sucked inwards and rolling off the tongue with unwanted hesitance.

"...I shouldn't have." His voice was soft, thin and fragile, and Wilson's steps dragged as their dance slowed, fading into almost a stop as the old man hissed in another hoarse breath, letting it loose with a rattle deep in his thin chest as shared balance started to crumble. "I should not have ever...it was wrong of me-"

"Stop." Wilson muttered, drowsy now from warmth even as it threatened to leave. "Just, not right now."

He had enough to press his weight forward, sort of stumble and force Maxwell to move with him, take back the lead, and it had only been a few moments pause but it helped when the other man began again. Wilson could hear that tired old knocking still, unsteady, uneven, not quite human enough, not really, but the familiarity of it had a soothing nature right now, in the dark and fire light and the warmth of shared contact.

His hands tightened, a squeeze of his dull claws to worn down leather glove, his other clutched loose to the side and holding to the suit jacket, fabric and warmth and continual presence, and with that he let out a drained sigh.

"Let me have this." Wilson turned his head, felt the former Nightmare King tense up ever so slightly as he pressed his face more firmly to his chest, inhaling the smell of wilderness and nature and human condition, of sweat and blood and every tainted breath, that deep spiced bite of nightmares that nibbled to the back of his mind in familiarity. "...I can think of how much I hate you later."

Maxwell was silent, quiet, though he did not stop their shuffling excuse of a dance, only led along in slowed, smooth arcs, movements that felt like warm currents as Wilson let himself be guided along. 

He was tired.

"I think I…" he exhaled, soft and shuddery, then breathed in again that scent, face nuzzled forward and feeling Maxwell stutter in his own shallow breaths, and his voice became a murmur, a near whisper as he slowed down, relaxed in the warm and half trusted contact. "...I think I need this. Just for a little while, Maxwell."

He didn't say 'please', didn't tack it on, and after a moment the hands holding him drew him in closer, a dip of the head above him and warm breath exhaled into his hair, against his skin with a sigh; an answer in of itself.

Both men danced, a semblance of one at least, and it could have almost been called a pleasant night.

**Author's Note:**

> 'meaningful _dance_ ' --> 'meaningful _chance_ '
> 
> Not a good pun, I admit, but I'm not particularly good at them anyhow.


End file.
